Which was exactly what he wanted.
During his mental conditioning in the DARPA facility beneath Baltimore, he learned an important aspect of human psychology—when people truly believe something about the world, their minds would reshape sensory data to fit alongside it. The secondary facets of understanding can fluctuate and change without causing discomfort, like discovering a particular internal combustion engine runs on diesel instead of gasoline. But learning that a fundamental notion is false creates instant and enduring dread. When the geocentric view of the universe was proved false, it sent shock waves through society and was rejected by skeptics, even into the modern era.
The cultists between him and the cathedral had been led to believe a less monumental truth, regarding guns. Hollywood, video games, and even personal experience taught them that if they shot a man, he would fall. Shoot a man repeatedly, and he will die. And when he crumbled this notion, the dread would wash over them, making them question if Jarrod was flesh and blood or supernatural. And if he was supernatural, could he be killed? Could he read their very thoughts? If they fought him and died in battle, would he hunt and torture them beyond the grave?
The first shot rang out, and a bullet sliced the air beside Jarrod’s head. He didn’t flinch and continued walking, exaggerating the sway of his hips to appear casual. A second shot rang out, then a third. The marksmen of the group were taking the lead while the less skilled hung back, hoping the enemy would fall without their contribution. A round hit Jarrod in the knee, glancing off his armor and burrowing into the sand. Another round hit him in the stomach, shoving him backward a step. When the third bullet struck his shoulder and failed to bring him down, one of the cultists began to shout.
“Fire! Everyone fire!”
The response was a unified explosion of nearly one hundred rifles. Rounds of various sizes pummeled Jarrod, making him dance like a marionette in the hands of a crazed puppeteer. He fell backward into the sand, but the gunfire continued until the cultists ran out of ammunition. When the silence finally arrived, Jarrod jumped to his feet before they could finish swapping magazines.
More shots rang out in rapid succession, but not in chorus. Only one shooter remained steadfast; the other cultists cried out in terror and fled, some leaving their weapons behind.
Jarrod continued forward, lengthening his stride as he closed in on the lone gunman—a young man with blond hair and blue eyes.
“Die, dammit.” The man shouted. He moved from prone to kneeling and squeezed off three more rounds. “Why won’t you die?”
Jarrod stripped the rifle from the man’s grip, twisting down and inward while slicing through the sling with a clawed finger. The man drew a pistol and Jarrod tore it from his hands.
Roaring in anger, the man unsheathed a knife and plunged it downward, aiming at Jarrod’s chest. The blade turned aside when it made contact with his armor, and the momentum carried the edge further down its arc, slicing the man’s inner thigh.
“Stop,” Jarrod said, flicking the knife away before the man could bring it up again. “Nick the wrong artery, and you could bleed out before anyone has a chance to help you.”
The man took a step back, his face red with anger and his eyes searching the ground for his weapons. He moved to grab the sidearm, but Jarrod seized him by the shoulders. Holding him in place with one hand, he dug a claw into the back of the man’s neck.
The man inhaled sharply, then fell limp. Jarrod lowered him to the rain-soaked ground, then stood upright and surveyed the city center.
It was abandoned; the only sounds were the groans from wounded cultists. Breaking into a run, he returned to the edge of the city. He carried four injured guards at a time, ferrying them toward the cathedral and arranging them in a circle, the way a team of medics would during a mass-casualty event.
Some of the cultists mumbled curses, others asked why he was helping them. He ignored them all and, once he was certain they would live, sprinted toward the cathedral. He leapt onto a portico, then slipped through the window he had cut open earlier. Dropping to the floor, he adjusted his armor to refract light and moved silently along the hallway. He lowered his head and placed an open palm against the wall to listen and feel for vibrations. Synthetic, fluid-filled organs in his head and neck detected the tiniest tremors and fed information to his brain for interpretation.
He lowered his hand and began to work. A multitude of variables was at play, and hundreds of innocent lives were at risk. This would require a delicate touch.
25
The gunfire dwindled until a single barking rifle was all that remained. Suddenly, Byron felt naked and exposed in the Sanctuary. He struggled to keep his expression calm as he rose to his feet. He didn’t want to lose control of the children. “It sounds as if the training exercise is wrapping up. Come, my lambs, we have one more stop to make before you can all go home. I must speak to Martha in the Parsonage. Fifth-graders, would you please lead the way?”
The exodus was painfully slow. The younger children wished to stay and rest; the older children suspected something was amiss outside the cathedral and felt safer in the vast auditorium. But eventually, all the children were in the corridors and their pace quickened. Byron worked his way toward the front of the pack, but he stopped short before taking the lead. A dozen human shields preceded him up the stairs to the Parsonage, through the wide door, and into the foyer.
“This way, children. To the left.”
A ten-year-old girl with pigtails paused in front of the door leading to the Rollins’ residence. “But Lord, we’re not supposed to go in here.”
“Today is a special day, my dear. You will all get a tour of Mother Martha’s home.”
The proclamation sent a rush of whispers through the group. Martha’s family was the focus of gossip and rumors throughout Holy Mountain. Martha was the most respected woman in the city, revered even above the elders. But her son, Cameron, was viewed by most Adherents as a hopeless unbeliever and a blight upon their utopia. The less privileged Adherents resented Martha for her enormous home, and the elders envied her clout. Martha was allowed anywhere in the city at any time, with or without permission from the other residents. But no one except Wisdom and the Rollins family could step foot inside her home.
As the first ten children entered the east living room, there was a mixture of gasps and sighs. The more reasonable children were impressed by the elegant decor and architecture; the others were disappointed that the home was not entirely composed of gold.
Feeling more comfortable in the familiar space, Byron took the lead. He passed through the formal dining room and kitchen, then stepped into the central lounge. As he entered, Martha extracted herself from a sofa with goose down cushions to greet him. The lines on her face looked deeper than usual, and she moved close before speaking.
“My king, what is happening out there?”
“An attack,” he whispered, “by outsiders who wish to repress our religion.”
She nodded. “It was wise to bring the children here. The walls are thick and we have enough room for all of them.”
“Yes. I knew they would be safe here.” He beckoned for the children to sit wherever they could, then scanned the room and turned back to Martha. “Where is my betrothed?”
“In the nursery with Cindy.”
Byron stared absently at the children as they sat on the furniture or stretched out on the floor. “Watch the young ones for me, will you?”
“Of course.”
Byron tiptoed through the crowd and passed through a short hallway. He opened the nursery door as quietly as he could, then shut himself inside. To his surprise, the room appeared empty. He cleared his throat and said, “Madelyn? Cindy?”
There was a muffled giggle in response.
He frowned. “Girls, this is no time for games. Come here.”
There was a thumping noise, and two beautiful faces appeared behind one of the beds. The girls hurried forward and stood side-by-side as if awaiting
inspection.
Cindy was Martha’s youngest. She had just turned six, but her face was already beginning to shed the roundness of childhood. At ten years old, Madelyn was easily the most beautiful of the Rollins children, and Byron yearned for the day she would come of age.
He shook his head, returning his thoughts to the present. “Why were you hiding under the bed?
Madelyn lowered her eyes and clasped her hands together, but didn’t speak. Cindy—sweet, innocent Cindy—raised her hand and bounced with excitement, eager to answer a question her older sister apparently didn’t know the answer to.
Byron smiled and knelt in front of her. “Go ahead, Cindy.”
She lowered her hand. “The shadow man told us to hide.”
Byron felt as if he was being pulled into an endless tunnel. The room, the girls, and reality itself shrank into a tiny circle. He swayed for a moment, swallowed, and licked his lips. “Who…who told you to hide?”
Cindy noticed the dismay on Byron’s face and backpedaled. “It’s okay, he’s not mean. He’s silly. I like him.”
“Did this man, umm, say anything else to you?”
Cindy shrugged. “He asked a lot of questions.”
The room was slowly coming back into focus, but Byron still felt as if he might vomit. “What kind of questions?”
“Like…” She thought for a moment. “My favorite color. I told him it’s blue, but I like green sometimes, too.”
“Anything else?”
“He asked if we’d like to go for a car ride.” Cindy’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “Are we really going to ride in a car?”
Byron turned to Madelyn. “Did he ask you anything?”
Madelyn kept her chin tucked against her chest and didn’t respond.
Byron’s voice rose a little. “Did he speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He—he said your name. Then he just…stared at me for a little while. And then he asked me why I hate you.”
Byron was taken aback. His tongue touched different points in his mouth, unsure of which word to form. Finally, he said, “What did you tell him?”
She met his gaze, and her eyes blazed with a long-concealed fire. “I told him I hate you because you killed my sister.”
Anger surged within him, and he gripped Madelyn by the shoulders. “I didn’t—” He stopped short, looked down at his hands clenching her tender arms, and let go. After taking a few deep breaths, he said, “Did you see where this shadow man went?”
“No. I was under the bed.”
Byron’s face reddened, and he rose to his feet. “Come with me. Both of you.” He led them into the hallway, holding Madelyn by her forearm.
“Let her go.”
Byron paused for a moment, then rushed to the edge of the lounge. He blinked twice, not believing his eyes. Martha was standing ramrod straight in the center of the room, her chin lifted as if she was balancing a book on her head. And she was alone.
He took a single step forward. “Martha, where are the children? You were supposed to—”
“Don’t come any closer.” The matriarch’s eyes were wide with fear. “And…and let her go. Right now.”
Byron released his grip on Madelyn and raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Now, what did you do with the children?”
“Girls, go back to the nursery.”
Cindy and Madelyn backed into the hallway and disappeared. Byron watched them go, then turned an impatient eye to Martha. “Explain yourself.”
“I…” Martha paused and tilted her head a millimeter to the right. Then she closed her eyes, releasing a pair of tears. “Why do I deserve to live?”
Byron started forward, but she shouted at him to stop.
He obeyed. “Martha, I’m just trying to understand what’s bothering you, and why you sent the children away.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He shook his head. “And why can’t I come closer?”
Martha’s lower lip trembled. Her face was that of a captive child begging for release. “He wants you to tell him…why I deserve to live.”
The missing piece slid into place, completing the puzzle. Byron glanced around the room wildly. “You spoke to him? When?”
“Please, Byron,” she sobbed. “Help me.”
Looking once more over his shoulder, he crossed the room and spoke in a low voice. “There’s still a way out of this. We just need to find the children and—”
“Why?” Martha cut in. “Why won’t you just tell him?”
Byron studied her eyes. And then he saw it—a shimmer in the air, directly beside her head. He sucked air in through his teeth and took a wide step back. His mind raced, searching for a way to escape the beast. Or to appease it.
“She doesn’t.”
Martha’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Byron hurried on. “She’s the mastermind behind everything. She runs Holy Mountain, creates every doctrine I teach. I—I never wanted anything to do with her, but she blackmailed me, said she would kill my mother if I didn’t help her.”
She spoke over her shoulder. “No! That’s not true!”
“Don’t listen to her. She’s a pathological liar. I’m a victim as much as anyone—”
A black outline appeared beside Martha, stunning Byron into silence. As he watched, the outline filled in, taking the shape of a man. A man with no face.
“You are both liars,” the inky black man said. “I just wanted her to know that you’re a coward before she died.”
Martha whirled and held up clasped hands. “Wait. Please, just wait.”
The man gently separated her hands and held them in his own. “Do not fear, I am not here to be your judge.” He tugged at the shirt fabric on her shoulder and used it to wipe her eyes.
Her entire body sagged with relief. She rubbed her face on her sleeve and let out a soft laugh. But before she lowered her arm, the man added, “I am your executioner.”
Byron stumbled back, tripping over a small table and shattering a lamp. The beast gripped Martha’s neck in one hand. Her windpipe was crushed, so she couldn’t cry out, and the light was fading from her eyes. Byron watched in horror as the beast squeezed tighter, closing its hand into a fist. Martha’s head lolled forward. Her arms and legs quivered for several long moments, then fell still.
“Now,” the dark man said, dropping Martha in a heap, “tell me why I should let you live.”
26
Byron hurried into the broad foyer. Far above, the skylights glowed blue and gray—the storm had ended, and a sliver of the morning sky was visible. In the adjacent corridor, the ivory sculptures, marble floor, and original paintings bore an azure tinge, giving them a melancholy aura. Shaking his head, Byron redirected his attention to the floor, watching his feet and trying to control his breathing.
It was no use. As soon as he reigned in his own thoughts, the image of the beast flickered through his vision and sent his heart racing once more. The dark creature repeatedly strode past him, then stopped and waited for Byron to take the lead. And throughout the game of leapfrog, the beast never made a sound—no whisper of breath, no beating of limbs, no tap of feet, even though Byron’s very thoughts seemed to echo off the walls. Occasionally, the beast would become transparent and race past him, only to reappear when he drew close.
Though the trip to his office only took a few minutes, Byron’s body ached with weariness. He produced a key and held it in a trembling hand, hesitating inches from the lock.
“You have a question,” the beast said.
“I…how do I know you won’t kill me when I give you the list?” Byron was referring to a list of famous people he knew to be Adherents—celebrities and politicians, mostly—that he planned to trade for his life.
“You have my word. That is the only assurance I can give you.”
Byron swallowed, then gave a shaky nod. He tried to push the key into the lock, but the key wouldn’t fit. Swearing, he fingered a dif
ferent key and tried it. Nothing. Why couldn’t he remember which key it was?
“Allow me,” the beast said.
Byron held up the heavy keychain, but the beast waved it away. It placed a glossy black hand on the lock, and its skin began to crawl as if alive. A moment later, the deadbolts snapped open, and the beast gestured for Byron to enter. “You have thirty seconds to convince me.”
Byron scrambled past the dark figure and pounced on his desk. He pulled open the center drawer, shook his head, then opened the drawer on the right. The page, though yellowed with sweat and dotted with holes where the pen had pushed through, was filled from top to bottom with clearly printed names.
“Here, take a look,” Byron said. He handed the beast the sheet and stepped back. “There’s a District Attorney on that list. Professional athletes, actors—even a Hollywood director.”
“And what are these men and women guilty of?”
“Terrible things.” Byron sounded like the star of an infomercial. “There’s a man who brings shipments of Ecstasy and cocaine to the mountain for parties, a Senator who helped me purchase land from the BLM in exchange for an hour with one of the children, a director who’s been molesting actresses for years, a—”
“Silence,” the beast interrupted. It folded the sheet in half, then added, “It is…sufficient.”
Byron rested his hand on his knees and let out a deep breath. “So, you’ll let me live?”
“I will. And I will give you a chance to save your wounded. Is there a way to address everyone in the city at once?”
“Here,” Byron said, pointing at a slotted silver microphone. “What do you want me to say?”
“You will say nothing.” The beast flipped a switch at the base of the microphone and tapped the receiver. Then it began to speak, this time in perfect mimicry of Byron’s voice. “People of Holy Mountain, sons and daughters of Wisdom, I bring you good news: the blood and tears you have shed in battle have not been in vain—today is a day of victory. Please, join me at the temple gate, that I may look upon you and share in your joy.”
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